


In the Next Room

by Detective_Sammy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Barebacking, Cuddles, Dom!Sherlock, Multi, Slash, Sub!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-17
Updated: 2012-05-17
Packaged: 2017-11-05 12:43:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/406515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Detective_Sammy/pseuds/Detective_Sammy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has been downright childish the last several days after his visit with his brother. John decides to do a little digging to find out why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Next Room

**Author's Note:**

  * For [doctorxxxmaximus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorxxxmaximus/gifts).



Sherlock hadn’t left the house in the last four days. In fact, he had hardly left his spot on the couch besides the occasional trip to the loo and the slight movement to reach for a different case file. He simply stayed put.

 

John found him in the same place he had left him before he left for work that day. He saw him on the couch, in his robe, which was wrinkled and hanging open. The cup of tea John had left him that morning still sitting there, now half full. He shook his head as he walked over to the consulting detective.

 

“Sherlock? Have you eaten today?”

 

The man made no movement to answer. He didn’t break his gaze from the screen. His fingers were steepled and lay against his lips and his eyes were whipping back and forth at whatever information was spread before him.

 

John sighed. “Sherlock!”

 

The doctor walked up behind the laptop and shut the lid. It worked to gather Sherlock’s attention, who cast him a nasty glance, dropping his hands to the side.

 

“Can’t you see I’m busy, John? If I were interested in answering you, I would have. I don’t know how many times I’ve told you that digestion slows me down.” He focused his gaze on John, his attempt at making the doctor feel bad for what he had done, but he knew it never had that effect. It usually meant that another argument was coming.

 

“Fine, fine. Sit there with your case files and wither and die. Digestion slows you down and all.” He shook his head. “But there isn’t anything important going on. You’d be more excited if there were.”

 

Living with Sherlock for the last two years had taught him that. He felt he knew the man like the back of his hand. Something else was going on that he wasn’t talking about. Sherlock kept himself busy when there something bothering him and John knew that prying it from him was going to be hard. He also knew he could leave Sherlock be to work on the problem by himself, but it could take weeks for him to get over it and John knew his body wouldn’t last that long without proper nutrition.

 

“You don’t know anything, John. Leave so that I may actually get some work done, will you?” Sherlock reached for the laptop, which John sniped away from him.

 

“No, you’ll eat before you get it back. Besides, it’s my laptop anyway. Where is yours?” He hugged his computer to his chest.

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John before standing. He towered over John for a moment and the doctor became afraid for the slightest of moment that the man would strike him, but nothing happened. Sherlock merely grumbled a few words before going upstairs.

 

John sighed and placed his laptop back on the coffee table. He turned and walked into the kitchen. He supposed he would start working on dinner. Sherlock may come down once beckoned with food. He opened the refrigerator and looked for something that could make an appetizing meal for a flatmate with such a picky palate. He frowned when he found nothing.

 

He sighed and glanced at his watch. It was five in the afternoon. He supposed he could run to the store. The sound of pipes groaning alerted him that Sherlock was taking a shower and he had plenty of time to run and get back. At least this way, John wouldn’t have to deal with a disagreeable odor from the other side of the table when he finally managed to get Sherlock to sit down and take a bite to eat.

 

John returned back to the flat forty minutes later. He had had trouble deciding what to make for the both of them and finally settled on chicken marsala. He entered the flat, juggling two grocery bags and ran straight into Sherlock.

 

“Sorry, I—”

 

John shut his mouth when Sherlock took the grocery bags from his hands and strode straight to the kitchen. He followed quickly behind the other man, amazed that Sherlock wasn’t lying on the couch or marching about in the study, working on his cases again.

 

“Just what are you doing, Sherlock?” John asked as he watched his flatmate sit the bags on the counter and began to unload them.

 

“Fresh ingredients. I’m impressed,” Sherlock drawled as he pulled out the onions, mushrooms, chicken and olive oil. “I remember that stuff from a can still.”

 

John rolled his eyes and walked over to the cabinet. Inside was a bottle of Marsala that had been sitting there for ages, given to him by Harry during one visit. He had thought it a bad idea of a gift from a recovering alcoholic, but he took it off of her hands so that she wouldn’t drink it herself. Seeing it had sparked the idea to make the dish.

 

“It was one time and I learned my lesson, didn’t I? Poor Sherlock Holmes has sensitive tastes and can’t be trifled with the over-salted canned food for the masses.”

 

“Joke all you want, but nothing excuses that awful mess.” Sherlock’s voice was stiff, his gaze narrowed on John.

 

“Please get out of the kitchen so I can cook, Sherlock,” John said through gritted teeth as he searched for the decorker with one hand and held the wine in the other. “I’m not in the mood to deal with your tone right now. You’ve had it all day.”

 

Sherlock took the bottle from him and picked the cork remover from the drawer without even looking. “I’m going to make dinner tonight. You leave the kitchen.”

 

John’s eyebrows rose. “Are you ill?”

 

“Of course not.”

 

“Really? Because you don’t cook. I cook or Mrs. Hudson cooks. Do you even know how?”

 

Sherlock scoffed. “It can’t possibly be that hard. It’s simple direction following. If you can do it, I certainly can. Now, go.”

 

John shook his head. “Alright then. Good. I cook for you all the time, nice to see you stepping up to the plate for once. Even if you are being an insufferable prick about it. I’ll go take a bath and hopefully return to a nice dinner.”

 

The sound of the popped bottle exited John as he made his way up to the bathroom. As he drew his bath, he wondered if Sherlock had everything he needed. John had located a recipe card a few weeks ago when he had been with Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock probably didn’t know to look at his recipe card. He hoped the man at least searched something on the internet to aid him. Or maybe, Sherlock was a great cook and was just too lazy to show his skill. It wouldn’t surprise him if it were true.

 

John undressed and slid into the hot bath. He sighed and relaxed. Were Sherlock not in such a nasty mood, this evening would be lovely. He was relaxing and Sherlock, for once, was actually being helpful despite his sharp tongue. The doctor closed his eyes and sank down into the tub until everything below his nose was submerged.

 

The doctor let his consciousness float as he relaxed into the water, letting loose tension he didn’t even know he had. His breaths became long and even. His mind drifted to Sherlock, imagining the man cooking for him. The thought brought color to his face as he let the thought drift further, imagining Sherlock sitting with him at the table, serving him, a peck on the cheek.

 

John’s eyes shot open at the ridiculous thought. He had at one time considered that he and Sherlock may have a deeper relationship than simply friendly flat mates, but those thought had been pushed away. John wasn’t gay and neither was Sherlock. Sherlock was simply a handsome bloke. No problem with admitting that a bloke was handsome.

 

It didn’t matter to John at all if the thought of being physically closer to the man crossed his mind all the time. He cared for the man, they depended on each other. It was only in the dark of his room that he let himself thing about how close he actually wanted to be with Sherlock.

 

Glancing down at his manhood, a wicked thought came over the doctor. John glanced at the door, ensuring that it was locked before he let his hand slide down his body, wrapping it around his manhood.

 

John began to slowly stroke himself. He gritted his teeth as he felt a pang of pleasure run through him as he continued in his usual way. Slow at first and then building a steady rhythm. As he built rhythm, John closed his eyes, Sherlock immediately filling his consciousness. Suddenly, it was the consulting detective’s fingers wrapped around his hardening member.

 

He leaned his head back and began imagine filthier things, Sherlock leaning forward and running his tongue up the length of his cock. His breath hitched as his member began to weep, prerelease beginning to gather at the tip of his cock. His hips jerked as he squeezed the base, bringing his hand to the top faster and faster with the aid of the conditioner he only used for this purpose.

 

The way Sherlock’s lips felt in John’s mind sent him over the edge. He cried out lightly, pleasure pulsing through his body as he came, his hand still working to continue the sensation for just a moment more.

 

John’s eyes focused on the white release dispersing into the water. His chest heaved as he leaned back, the tension gone from his body.

 

However, the relaxation was short lived. A loud clatter followed by the loud beeping of the smoke detector sounded. John rose up from the water, turning to face the door. Maybe it was a fluke. The detector could be sensitive—then smell of smoke began to seep into the room.

 

“John! To the kitchen!” A muffled yell sounded.

 

The doctor hopped out of the tub and reached for his robe. He wrapped it around him and hurried down the stairs, waving his arms, attempting to push away the smoke.

 

The downstairs was coated in a thick smoke. John had hardly been in the bath for half an hour, what had Sherlock managed to do in such a short amount of time?

 

“Sherlock!”

 

“John! Windows!”

 

John released an irritated grunt and hurried to the windows in the sitting room and opened the windows, the smoking pouring out. He turned and hurried into the kitchen. He ran to the sink and pulled out the fire extinguisher and readied the canister in case it was needed.

 

On the stove was a skillet that held charred chicken, flames bit up at the edges of the pan. Next to it, a smoking concoction of unevenly chopped onions, mushrooms, and Marsala wine was boiling. John turned off the stovetop and looked at Sherlock.

 

“What is all of this?”

 

“What does it look like? It’s dinner, of course.”

 

John released a loud groan and turned off the stove. He put the fire extinguisher back under the sink and turned on the overhead fan.

 

“Who in the world taught you to cook? This smells terrible!” John reached for a fork and knife, splicing the meat apart in the pan. The outside was black but the inside was still mostly raw. He rolled his eyes as he placed the utensils back on the counter.

 

Sherlock frowned. “I was simply following the recipe,” he snapped, folding his arms over his chest.

 

John let out a haughty laugh. “‘Following the recipe’? Where in the recipe did it say to catch the kitchen on fire?”

 

“It said to sauté the meat in the wine. I was doing just that,” Sherlock growled. He pushed John out of the way and grabbed a bowl. “I’m sure it tastes fine.” He began to spoon the half-cooked pasta into the bowl followed by some of the sauce.

 

“Sherlock! No!” John reached for the bowl, but Sherlock simply cocked his hip to the right, shoving John out of the way as he put the mutilated piece of chicken into the next of noodles.

 

“Hush, John. I am hungry and I intend to eat my meal.”

 

“But it’s undercooked! You’ll get sick!”

 

John watched as Sherlock strode passed him, bowl and fork in hand. John sighed and followed after him, following his flat mate into the living room. He watched as the brunette took a seat on the couch and began to shovel the food into his mouth.

 

Were it not for the fact that the food was undercooked, John would’ve been tickled to see the man eat at all. He stood before him and jerked the bowl from Sherlock’s hands. He placed the bowl on the table and turned back to Sherlock, who sat on the couch, hands clutched on his lap, the fork gripped in his right hand.

 

“Sherlock, talk to me. What’s wrong?” John asked, taking a seat next to the irritated man. He reached for the fork and tugged it out of Sherlock’s hand with a bit of effort before tossing it to the bowl.

 

“It’s nothing.”

 

“Don’t lie. Making dinner? Burning it? Your piss-poor attitude? It doesn’t take deduction to see that something has upset you.” He watched as Sherlock steadied his gaze across the room, focused on the mantle. “It’ll make you feel better to talk about it, you know.”

 

A wry laugh sounded from the detective. “Don’t, John. Just don’t. I don’t talk to _feel better_.” His voice raised in pitch, imitating the man.

 

John sighed and scooted away from the man. “Well, thought I’d try, anyway. Sherlock Holmes, man of steel.” He sighed and shook his head.

 

“It’s Mycroft.”

 

John turned to look at Sherlock. “Excuse me?”

 

The man scoffed. “Need I really repeat myself?”

 

“What’s he done now?”

 

“He’s getting married.”

 

John’s eyes widened. For over a year, the man had been privately dating Gregson Lestrade, the two running into each other at a crime scene, both trying to talk to Sherlock. John thought the couple strange, but to each his own. Lestrade decided to move into Mycroft’s brownstone three months ago, forcing Lestrade from his closet. John supposed marriage was the next logical step.

 

“I don’t get it, why does his getting married bother _you_?” John’s mind ran through the question. Sherlock didn’t like his brother. His getting married would leave him with even less time to bother him. Lestrade would likely be around less, but he knew the detective inspector wouldn’t hesitate to call him in for a case. It wasn’t as if Sherlock had feelings for Lestrade, was it?

 

John’s stomach flopped at the thought. That couldn’t be true. Sherlock was one of the most asexual people that the doctor had ever met. Of course he wouldn’t be interested in Lestrade.

 

“It doesn’t bother me. He can be with whomever he wants.”

 

Relief swept over John, followed by a twinge of guilt. Why was he relieved?

 

“It was what he said after he told me he was engaged.” Sherlock’s eyes darkened, staring, unfocused. “‘Sherlie, you will never find happiness with another.’” The man shook his head. “At first it didn’t bother me. I’ve been alone my whole life. He had too, I suppose. He was over forty, the chances of him settling down were in the lowest percentile. However, he did.” Sherlock huffed. “I wasn’t bothered at the comment, but that he had said it. That even after himself had been in my shoes, he had no faith for me to reach the same level he had attained.”

 

John nodded after a long silence. “Right.” He wanted to say that Mycroft was wrong, but was he? Of course not. Sherlock could be happy with someone.

 

Sherlock stood. “The carnal actions he’s acting in have messed with his sensibilities. He is no longer speaking sanely. I suppose this is what marriage does to a healthy brain.”

 

And with that, Sherlock disappeared upstairs, locking himself into his room.

 

John sighed. He supposed he’d clean the kitchen and order take-out.

 

==

 

It was been nearly a week since the explosive admission from Sherlock. John had hardly seen a ghost of the man, who had moved his basis of operation to the bedroom. John and Mrs. Hudson had made it a point to leave food on his dresser whenever they could and were more than delighted when they spotted that the food had been touched.

 

But John was beginning to worry. Mycroft’s words had affected the man so much. John wasn’t sure why. Sherlock had been alone. For ages. As far as he knew, the man had never been in a steady relationship, and John could see why. The guy was an irritating prat. But, John found it endearing at times. He was sure that no one would ever see Sherlock the way he did.

 

Wanting to get to the bottom of this, John decided that the best course of action to be to question Mycroft himself.

 

After a few annoyed texts, John had been picked up in front of a nearby tavern and was driven to Mycroft’s brownstone. It was the first time John had been there and it was much grander than his and Sherlock’s flat. He supposed this is what you could afford when you were the British government.

 

“Evening, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft said from behind his desk. John had been let in and promptly led to the man’s private office. John was disappointed that he hadn’t gotten a chance to look around or even saw Lestrade, who he was sure was probably at work.

 

“Evening.”

 

“What brings you here, John? Your passive aggressive text messages lead me to believe you are upset with me and wish to talk about it.” He pointed to the seat in front of him. “Please, sit.”

 

John sat. “Why’d you have to say something like that to him? That he’d never find happiness with someone?”

 

“Because it’s true, Mr. Watson. You’re the closest person he’s ever had and, true, he is attached to you, but, come now. Do you think he’s really happy to have you around? Has he ever done anything to prove it?”

 

John pursed his lips. “It was still uncalled for, Mycroft.”

 

“Has he ever made a sexual advance toward you?”

 

John blushed. “N-no. Of course. But I’m not gay.”

 

Mycroft cracked a smile. “Don’t kid yourself, John. Sexuality isn’t as cut-and-dry as you would like to make it. You love my brother. You’re waiting for him to make the first move. It’ll never happen.” He sighed. “And it’s doesn’t even have to do with being sexual with one another, Mr. Watson. It’s the fact that he can’t trust you enough to do something of the sort. He’s fond of you, but he’ll never be fond enough of you to allow you inside or to let down his walls. It’s not inside of him.”

 

John gave a humorless laugh. “I see. So, because you’re getting married, you’ve let Lestrade inside? Gave him all the trust you can manage, eh? Truly happy together, the two of you?”

 

“Greg and I have an understanding. What we have is not what you have with my brother.” He smirked. “Besides, you’re not gay. Now, go back to your nonsexual life partner, Doctor Heterosexual. He’s probably destroyed something.”

 

John shook his head, eyes locked on Mycroft as he stood and headed toward the door.

 

“John? What did he tell you?”

 

John halted in his movements. “He told me you said ‘Sherlie, you will never find happiness with another person’.”

 

Mycroft tossed his head back and chuckled. “I knew Sherlock would only report only a piece of what I said. I told him that he’d never be happy because he wouldn’t allow himself to be. The only person he has to be upset with is himself.” He centered his eyes on John. “I didn’t say he was incapable of it, but he is his own biggest road block. He just needs to figure out how to bring it down.”

 

John stared at the man for a moment before walking toward the door.

 

“He wouldn’t be upset if he didn’t know it were true, John,” Mycroft called after him.

 

John shut the door behind him.

 

==

 

The groan of pipes sounded overhead when John entered the flat. He walked up the stairs to his and Sherlock’s living room. It was still undisturbed, but the sound of the shower at least meant that Sherlock wasn’t moping about in his room anymore.

 

To his surprise, Mrs. Hudson came down the stairs, arms full of sheets.

 

“What’s going on?” John asked, taking the sheets from her.

 

“Oh, me. He left the room to shower, I thought I’d go change his sheets. I already grabbed his laundry. It was a bit rank in there.” She smiled. “It’s much better now. I feel like a bit of ninja the way I got meself in there.”

 

John chucked and shook his head. “Thank you, I’ll take these to the basket,” he said, trying not to smell the sheets.

 

When John emerged from the laundry room, he watched Mrs. Hudson head for the door. “Good afternoon, dear, I’m going out with the girls.”

 

John nodded. “Um, wait. Before you go, how is he?”

 

She smiled and shook her head. “Don’t know, dear. He stomped to the shower. He’s been in there for over an hour now.”

 

The doctor nodded and headed toward Sherlock’s room. He opened the door and found it empty. It did smell nice. Mrs. Hudson must’ve sprayed something, it was working.

 

John walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. He glanced around the room and saw that she had straightened up a bit. She said she wasn’t a housecleaner, but she did take care of them from time to time. Supposed she disliked the filth more than they thought they could live with it.

 

Lying back on the bed fitted with clean sheets, John stared at the roof. It was the only truly clear space in Sherlock’s room, besides the light fixture, of course. He sighed and took in the white. He figured he needed to talk to Sherlock. Try to get him out of the room. He was so sick of the man moping about. He never seemed to want to get close to someone before, why did it bother him now?

 

The bathroom floor creaked. The pipes groaned as the sound of running water ended.  The bathroom door whined as it was opened, forcing John into an alert sitting position. He watched as the door opened, Sherlock standing there, a towel wrapped around his waist.

 

John felt his cheek heat at the sight of the other man in the towel. He glanced away from him.

 

“You’ve been to see Mycroft,” Sherlock muttered as he took a seat across from John, the towel scandalously waving about his thighs. “Did warding myself in my room really warrant a visit to him?”

 

John felt annoyance rise in his chest. Of course it did. Even now Sherlock’s bad mood was irradiating the whole room. The way he sat before him, his arms crossed and his jaw squared made him into the most irritating person John had ever seen.

 

“Yes, I would say so. Thought I’d find out if locking yourself away was, how’d you put it? Warranted?”

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “And did you learn anything illuminating?”

 

“Not much more than you already told me. You left out a bit when you told your version, you know.”

 

Sherlock scoffed. “Does it really matter?”

 

John sighed. “Why does it matter what he thinks? If you really wanted to be with someone, you would have, wouldn’t you?” He sighed. “I mean, don’t you think of that sort of thing as frivolous anyhow? In the way of your deductions and all?”

 

The consulting detective steepled his fingers and turned his gaze away. “Entirely inaccurate. I am bothered because you haven’t taken notice and I have completely given up. Mycroft is right, but for the wrong reason. I will never find happiness with another person, because I love _you_. The trouble seems to be that you don’t see it.”

 

The thing that stuck with John were the words ‘I love you’. He loved him? Really? All the times he’d snapped at him, made him angry? He was being affectionate?

 

Of course he was. It made sense now. Sherlock had let John in. And despite the fact that John didn’t have access to everything that was Sherlock Holmes, he had more access than anyone else, family included.

 

“And, as previously stated, I have given up. So, please give me a few days to mourn my lost love and dying happiness.”

 

John took a deep breath and shook his head. “Hush, stop being quite so dramatic,” he said softly. His chest was rattling with excitement, his heart beating faster.

 

“Dramatic?” Sherlock scoffed.

 

John could tell Sherlock was having a hard time with this. The look on his face proved it.

 

“My anger at Mycroft is simply because he didn’t believe I would ever have you.”

 

The conversation was moving too fast. Sherlock loved him. He had been trying to get his attention and felt as though he had failed. He was upset that Mycroft knew they’d never be together. This was what was bothering Sherlock? That John hadn’t seen the vague hints placed before him?

 

“Is it true?”

 

“What?”

 

“That you… You love me? I mean, because I don’t see it.”

 

It was a risky statement. It meant Sherlock would have to explain himself.

 

Sherlock sneered. “I let you in as best I could. I trust you, John. More than I trust anyone.”

 

John felt his face heat up. The comments that he remembered from those around him filling his mind. Was he really that blind? No, John had heard everything and he believed what Sherlock was telling him. He had simply denied it before now. He hadn’t wanted to think that he could possibly be gay for another man, that another man could love him and that he’d happily return the love.

 

He knew he had seen it. He had put it out of his mind and it was only now that he realized that he never had a problem with it and neither did Sherlock.

 

“Well, I am no master deducer,” John muttered, his hands gripping his thighs.

 

“Obviously. Now, please remove yourself from my room.”

 

“But I do want you to know, that I have feelings for you too. Not sure if they’re as deep as yours, but I am quite fond of you as well.”

 

Sherlock didn’t glance up from his hands. “Leave, John.”

 

John heaved a sigh and stood from the bed. He approached the man and took his steepled hand between his own. He separated the two and brought Sherlock’s hands up to his lips, pressing them against the detective’s knuckles.

 

Sherlock pulled his hands away from John. He rubbed his knuckles lightly before placing them on his knees.

 

“I just haven’t said anything,” he said softly. “You’re not the only one who’s unobservant. Deduction didn’t tell you anything, apparently.”

 

“Go, John.”

 

“I want to try this with you.”

 

“And what?”

 

“And maybe be together. I do appreciate you being around.”

 

Sherlock leaned forward. The pit in John’s stomach turned to ice. Sherlock stood, leaning forward, their faces centimeters apart. John’s ears went hot and his hands clammy. He took a shaky breath and closed his eyes. Sherlock was just going to do it like that?

 

However the sensation of the man didn’t stay long. He opened his eyes when he heard the chair creak.

 

“I can feel the fear coming from you in waves,” Sherlock said. He scoffed and looked at the side of the room.

 

John felt a sharp flash of anger. He met eyes with the man before pressed their lips together. The last thing he saw before he closed his eyes was Sherlock’s eyes widening as he deepened the kiss with his tongue, begging for entrance as he slid his tongue over the consulting detective’s lips, which Sherlock gladly gave him.

 

But, John pulled away. He gave a nervous chuckle as he sat back on the edge of the bed, licking his lips as he did.

 

“See?” He took a seat at the edge of the bed, giving a shaky nod. “I’m not scared of the idea, just not used—”

 

John was interrupted when Sherlock stood, the towel barely dangling around his waist and bridged the gap between them.

 

Their lips crashed together and John released a soft moan. Sherlock didn’t have to push hard to force John onto his back as he climbed on top of him, the towel around Sherlock’s waist falling off to cover his thighs. John was glad for this for two reasons. One, it covered up his growing erection and two, he got was shown Sherlock’s.

 

Sherlock shoved his tongue into John’s mouth, John welcoming the tongue immediately. He groaned into the kiss, his hands flying to Sherlock’s bare shoulders as he felt Sherlock’s hands go to work on his jumper, pulling it up, exposing the button-up he wore beneath.

 

The kiss broke only long enough for Sherlock to toss the jumper and his towel thoughtlessly away. John began to pull at the buttons of his shirt, wanting nothing more than for it to be off, kicking off his shoes as he did so. The thought of having sex with Sherlock never seemed more alluring than it did right now.

 

Their lips were soon mashed back together as John leaned up to shrug off the button-up, throwing it to the floor. Sherlock’s hands worked feverishly to unbutton his pants, the light touches sending shivers up John’s spine. He spread his legs carefully, Sherlock sliding between his thighs as he removed both his clacks and his boxers and tossed them too to the side, along with his socks.

 

John felt strangely at peace despite the fact he was so exposed. Sherlock settled his body between his thighs and John could feel his erection brush over his abdomen as the man leaned in for another kiss. He closed his eye and felt their lips press together, his hands carefully exploring Sherlock’s sides, gliding over his back and stretching slightly to reach his rear.

 

Sherlock moan into the kiss and pulled away. He smiled at John before pressing kisses down John’s jaw, nipping at his jawline before pressing a solid kiss to the man’s neck.

 

The sweet kisses were beginning to drive John mad. He closed his eyes and arched into his lips.

 

“Sherlock, you’re teasing me,” he whispered softly.

 

“I am,” answered a deepened voice.

 

John’s eyes landed on Sherlock, watching as the man began to kiss down his chest. Sherlock’s fingertips raced his lips down John’s body, beating them to John’s loins. The doctor sharply inhaled when he felt the long spidery fingers run over the erection that was beginning to form on his thigh.

 

“St-stop it, Sherlock,” he hissed softly before leaning up to capture Sherlock’s lips in a kiss. He used his hand to lead Sherlock’s around his erection, groaning softly when Sherlock complied, wrapping his hand around the engorging erection.

 

Sherlock’s attention seemed to wander as John’s erection came to full mast. He glanced down at the flesh, running his fingers carefully along it before he began to stroke again. The sensation, exploratory or not, was causing shivers of pleasure to assault John’s state of mind. His breath began to wave and he closed his eyes.

 

Sherlock continued his careful attack on John’s body, pausing to kiss John’s body. The once-toned Army Doctor’s body still held a shadow of the tone it used to have and Sherlock loved the feeling of the muscled rises and fall of his chest.

 

John opened his eyes and watched Sherlock slide down his body, his face was hidden by a mess of wet curls that dragged along his body. He watched the drying trail of saliva on his chest as it rose and fell.

 

He gasped when he felt the consulting detective’s tongue reached his pubic hair, slowly reaching the base of his cock.

 

John whimpered. He knew if Sherlock took him into his mouth, he wouldn’t last long and he hadn’t gotten a chance to explore the other’s body, and he ached to do so.

 

“Sherlock,” he said, leaning up. He reached forward and led Sherlock by the jaw to his lips, mashing them together.

 

Sherlock instantly understood and pushed his body back forward. He broke the kiss and crawled up toward the headboard, bidding John to follow him with the waggle of a finger. The doctor didn’t hesitate crawling up beside the man.

 

He did so slowly, running his hand up Sherlock’s body as he did, starting as his ankle, working his way up calf. His hand slowed once it reached the man’s thigh and lingered on his arse. He blushed bright and averted his gaze from Sherlock’s manhood and look up at the man’s face, his curls sticking around his face.

 

“One moment,” Sherlock said, leaning forward. He pecked John’s lips before he could ask what he was doing and watched the man disappear out of the door.

 

The silence in the room radiated and John felt apprehension begin to set in. He was naked. In Sherlock’s bed. They had kissed…well, they had certainly done a lot more than kiss. This was happening.

 

The detective returned a moment later. In his hand was John’s half-empty bottle of lube that he kept in his nightstand for his private use.

 

“How’d you know where that was?” John asked, leaning forward and taking it from Sherlock’s hand.

 

“Simple. Most men have a lubricant for masturbation. Lubrication or lotion and since your manhood wasn’t—”

 

John interrupted the man with a kiss and pulled him back into the bed. He didn’t care at the moment how Sherlock knew he masturbated with lube instead of lotion. All he cared about was feeling the man’s body against his own.

 

Sherlock seemed to agree and climbed back onto John, situating himself between his thighs. John saw from the corner of his eyes that Sherlock was spilling lube onto his fingers. He gasped when he felt Sherlock press a finger against his opening.

 

“Relax,” Sherlock whispered softly.

 

John obeyed. Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s throat as he spread the lubricant on the outside of the man’s entrance before dipping a finger into him.

 

The doctor cried out at the sensation. He was torn between wanting to watch Sherlock and burying his face in the pillow. Both had their pros and cons, but the doctor decided to lean into the pillows, successfully silencing his cries.

 

The feeling of Sherlock’s finger inside of John was both strange and new. He’d never been with a man and his other partners had never been this kinky. His previous sexual experiences had been rather run-of-the-mill, missionary, the occasional doggy-style.  This time everything felt new.

 

He knew that Sherlock was a virgin. He had been momentarily afraid that the man may hurt him, but the thoughts melted away when the man began to carefully prod inside of him, inserting a second finger to ease his anxiety. It was working; the intrusion was preparing him for Sherlock, whom he knew was definitely larger than two fingers. Sherlock must’ve been doing his research.

 

John closed his eyes as he felt Sherlock’s fingers sliding inside of him. He could tell from the touch that Sherlock was taking in as much as he could and John wouldn’t have minded were it not for the fact that Sherlock was being so delicate in his movement.

 

The doctor was just about to object, ask him to move faster when Sherlock’s fingers slid carefully over his prostate.

 

His hips jerked back and he cried out. “T-there! Do it again,” he breathed.

 

Sherlock glanced up at him and removed his hand. “In a moment.”

 

 John’s eyes narrowed as he watched Sherlock reach for the towel at the side of the bed. Sherlock wiped his hand off before dabbing more lubricant on his hands, coating himself before again wiping off the excess.

 

The bed creaked as Sherlock positioned himself over John. The bed dipped at either side of John’s head as Sherlock slide himself between the man’s thighs. John felt his stomach begin to knot. His hands gripped Sherlock’s hips as his knees tightened at his sides. He could feel Sherlock’s hardened manhood pressing against his rear.

 

The detective reached down and guided himself to John. He pressed his dick to his entrance and slowly began to push into him.

 

John clenched his eyes shut and cursed under his breath. Sherlock paused momentarily, letting the man adjust before the continued, doing this process until he was entirely sheathed inside of John.

 

The doctor panted slightly. He squeezed Sherlock between his thighs. “M-move, Sherlock,” he said softly. John had never felt so full before. He loved the sensation, Sherlock’s cock filling him, the feeling of his body buzzing around the man and Sherlock’s erection throbbing inside of him/

 

Sherlock nodded and began to rock his hips, his pants growing labored as he began to slowly pull out of John before sliding back into to him. The pace was painfully slow.

 

“Dear God, Sherlock,” John groaned as he began to rock his hips along with the thrusts, the muted sound of slapping skin beginning to grow. “Faster.”

 

The brunette complied. He began to slowly increase his pace, pulling out further and further before he shoved back in to fill John over and over. He slowly adjusted his thrusts so that he was thrusting against the other’s prostate.

 

The second Sherlock hit John’s prostate, he cried out and his toes curled. He dug his hands into fingers into the others back. The feeling of pleasure shocking through him with each thrust.

 

“S-Sherlock!” John’s breath caught in his throat. His erection was leaking onto his stomach, the force of their moving bodies causing it to smear. He clenched his eyes shut as he felt his release beginning to build.

 

John’s gaze focused on Sherlock’s face as he was hurled closer and closer to this released. Beads of sweat were beginning to from on the others forehead. John could feel the sheets move as they were clenched between Sherlock’s fingers, his chest heaving in time with the thrusts.

 

Sherlock caught John watching him and gave a small, husky laugh, a smirk curving his lips. That small smile sent John over the edge. His hands flew to Sherlock’s hips and gripped them tightly as his eyes rolled back, his release climbing up his body, stilling him for a moment. He could literally feel his brain disconnect, his body tighten around Sherlock, forcing the consulting detective into his own release.

 

John managed to catch his breath as he felt Sherlock still and orgasm quietly within him. John saw him look away, blush before Sherlock found that his body could actually work again. The warm release beginning already to slowly leak from his body.

 

Sherlock carefully pulled out of John before lying next to him. He closed his eyes, his chest steadily rising and falling as he began to catch his breath.

 

John’s body was already beginning to feel sore, a slight buzzing in his lower region that told him he would be in a little pain later, but he ignored it. He instead rolled over and cuddled himself against Sherlock’s chest, running his hands up and down the heated flesh.

 

“That was lovely,” he said softly, breathing in Sherlock’s neck. And it was. He didn’t think for a moment about the fact he had just slept with a man. He felt fulfilled. He had explored the fantasies that he had kept in the back of his mind and he felt so satiated.

 

A twitter sounded from Sherlock’s phone.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock said softly, reaching over for his phone. John blinked and arched an eyebrow.

 

“Who is it?”

 

“Mycroft. He’s asking if I have ‘sealed the deal’. Should I tell him?”

 

John rose up on his elbow. “Excuse me?”

 

Sherlock began to run his thumb over the letters. John’s face turned red and he jerked the phone from Sherlock’s hand. He glanced at the screen and saw that it was exactly as Sherlock had said. A small winking face accompanied the text.

 

He glanced down and saw that Sherlock had been typing a response that heated his face further. “Don’t tell your brother, Sherlock!” he said, deleting what the man had said and typing in a hurried ‘none of ur business’.

 

Just as John was handing back the phone, a text popped up. John growled when he saw it said ‘Evening, Doctor. It’s rude to steal mobiles.’ He shoved the phone back into Sherlock’s hands and sighed into the bed.

 

“If you didn’t want him to know, you should’ve let me handle it.”

 

John shot Sherlock a glare. “I’m going to take a shower,” he said, sitting up, scooting to the edge of the bed.

 

“No, wait.” Sherlock reached out and grabbed John’s hand. “Lie with me,” he said, reeling him back in.

 

John relented and cuddled against his chest, his eyes following Sherlock’s hands as he put the phone on his night stand.

 

“I love you, John,” Sherlock said, wrapping an arm around John’s shoulders.

 

John blushed. “I love you, too.”

 

The end.


End file.
